


Off The Deep End

by scvlpvnk



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: A Bit of Fluff, Anxiety, Depression, M/M, Pete Wentz's Suicide Attempt (Best Buy Incident), Suicide, a bit of Gray and Sober references, peterick drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-11-28 18:25:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11423592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scvlpvnk/pseuds/scvlpvnk
Summary: "He became aware of the zipper of his hoodie, cold and harsh and not right against his skin and at once, the world started spinning, his lips got chapped and he started breathing. He had to get it off, he had to change before he went mad over a zipper (or lips or Him or the way a pen on the tiny coffee table made a “swish” sound every time their driver made a turn)."Pete was losing his mind and no one else could know.





	1. I'm The Worst Liar I know

**Author's Note:**

> I was lucky enough to have spikycactussociety (find them on Tumblr) beta this. Without them it would've been a mess.
> 
> S/O to you if you get any of the references.

Dangerous thoughts were flowers and dangerous words were the seeds; maybe it was the other way around. Pete didn’t remember, Pete was blank, Pete was gone. Pete was but a mess. On stage, a mess. On top of hotels, a mess. Ativan and then forget his head, forget Him, forget Her, forget the World and what a horrible, beautiful place it was. Forget the brutal pull and push of a tide because everything was a production- waves in the ocean, his pulse in his throat and the engine humming in the tour bus. 

_He was on the tour bus._ His eyes opened. _He was wearing shoes._ One foot down, second foot down, up. He didn’t remember falling asleep and he didn’t remember waking up. He didn’t know if he’d been asleep. Or awake. He didn’t know if he was alone or what time it was, only that they were driving and that it was dark and that, besides the hum of the engine, he could hear soft breathing. _Like a production, like a life, like Him._ It wasn’t his breathing. He was sure he wasn’t breathing at this point, tugging sneakers off and making sure he was actually wearing underwear before tugging off the too-tight jeans that clung to his too-thin thighs. At least it wasn’t too much of a struggle, he didn’t sweat.

He became aware of the zipper of his hoodie, cold and harsh and not right against his skin and at once, the world started spinning, his lips got chapped and he started breathing. He had to get it off, he had to change before he went mad over a zipper (or lips or Him or the way a pen on the tiny coffee table made a “swish” sound every time their driver made a turn). He got on a shirt instead of the hoodie, _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, 2005, $12 in Walmart, Beloit, Michigan,_ and then just leaned against a wall and focused on breathing; did he want to be awake or asleep? Did he want unbearable silence or caffeine shaking? He didn’t know. He never knew. It was never anywhere in the middle, it was black and white. 

That night he didn’t have a choice. 

A plate fell onto the floor when the driver made a sharp turn (Pete wished he could’ve thrown it himself. The crash is so much sweeter when you’re the cause of it), smash, and he stopped breathing. _Who puts porcelain on a bus?_ Wrong question. _Why did fate only want chaos?_ The pen fell, too. _Click._ Now the sound was louder. More place to swish around, more noise to lose his mind about. A bunk creaked and He was awake, sitting up and, God, how Pete could _smell_ sleep. 

“Pete?” He said and he stiffened up, pretended not to be there because _IknowI’mamessIknowyouhatemeIamsosorry_ sounded more pathetic than silence or a punch to the jaw. Soft sigh, bunk creaking and now his eyes were closed and fists were clenched because _now it was too late to say anything, now it would be weird._ He was so scared. Out of nowhere there were rough fingertips softly unclenching his fists and “ _Pete_ ,” and _there_ was that hopelessness again because all he did was disappoint and worry and _why did the World have to revolve around him?_

And then his eyes were open and there was ivory skin, ocean eyes, and copper hair; he would never get over how beautiful He was. Even with his stomach aching, he managed to form a smile. _For Him._ Patrick looked upset. “Did you drop something, man?” 

Pete lied, for some reason. _He made coffee, to wake up, and then he dropped his cup!_ It seemed more reasonable to lose his mind about a cup than a zipper. Maybe not. Patrick wasn’t buying it. Pete fell in love. 

Pete had eaten a fucking donut and left the plate on a coffee table. It slid off. “I’ll go clean it up. Go to bed.” He wasn’t supposed to know. He wasn’t supposed to see all the lies Pete used to tie himself closer to Him, He wasn’t supposed to see him falling deeper into insanity when all he was trying to do was stay sane for Him. His hand held tight onto the soft fabric of Patrick’s shirt, _unknown_ , and he begged Him not to go because Patrick, oh Patrick, He would laugh when He saw that it wasn’t a cup, it was a plate. _Who puts porcelain on a bus?_ Patrick shushed him, even though no noise was coming out of him. “Go to bed, Pete, it’s fine. I’ll be back.” Patrick would laugh. He felt like he was going to vomit. _Liar liar pants on fire._ He lied to his best friend. _Who lies to their best friend?_ He was a fraud. _A cup a cup a cup._

The sheets were soft and they smelled like Him. Like bad laundry soap and salt and raspberries. _Maybe he should put on some pants._ It was hot. _Maybe he should take off his shirt._ He was curled up in no time, Him everywhere. The World slowly stopped spinning and he could seehearfeel again. Yellow lights turned on, joints cracked after hours of sleeping and he could hear deep breaths that would have been annoying if they weren’t His. _He was gonna laugh._

He didn’t laugh. _Sweep, sweep._ Pieces of porcelain into the trash. What a waste. They needed cardboard plates. Joe and Andy deserved porcelain. He could see a dark frame against bright lights and then the lights turned off and there was only Him. There only ever was Him. 

Patrick hadn’t told him to get in his bunk. Pete was kind of expecting a shove or a punch or a yell because he always seemed to forget that Patrick wasn’t like that. Patrick didn’t see Pete as the piece of shit everyone else seemed to do. Patrick was too good, too sweet, everything you’d ever need- when he wanted to. He understood.

Patrick shivered and then crawled in; his stomach dropped because He was cold and it was his fault. Then there were cold feet against his shins and it was his turn to shiver. Suddenly Patrick was just so close to him and then they were tangled up together and the world was warm. “I’m here, y’know?” Patrick said, edging closer and closer and closer until Pete’s arms were around him, breath against neck. 

“I noticed,” Pete said. Patrick laughed. It was actually just a quiet huff, but that was a lot coming from a presumably 5 am Patrick. 

“Don’t steal my sheets if you’re only here to make fun of me.” 

This was softer than what they usually did so Pete didn’t know what to do, what to say, what to laugh about. He just closed his eyes and so he breathed. 

“Excited for Europe?” Pete asked and that was just a _stupid_ question. It was their first trip to Europe and it was gonna be their second biggest tour yet. They would be playing shows for 12000 kids and eating onion soup and currywurst for four weeks straight. They were all ecstatic. Pete opened his eyes. The only response he received was a hum and then the deep breaths were back and He was asleep. He was ethereal, fragile beams of sunlight streaming in from under the cheap curtains and hitting his cheekbone. Pete wanted to lick it off, suck it out, just fucking absorb how Patrick looked at that moment. He didn’t. 

Instead, he closed his eyes. _Inhale, exhale. Pulse in check. Brain out._ Sleep felt better than ever. 


	2. Nostalgic For Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He drove down E Lake Ave and remembered all the times he had picked Patrick up from his school and driven him to shows. He drove down Edens Expy and he was so sorry that he’d ever even met Patrick, promised that he would never dare to show his face at His door again. He drove down Kennedy Expy and remembered driving off the main road and getting chop suey with Patrick because they’d been so damn hungry on the way home from a show and it was the only place open that wasn’t Dunkin's Donuts or Starbucks. 
> 
> He drove down W Webster Ave and 20 minutes felt like such a long, long time to get home. He drove down N Elston Ave and he had to pull over if he didn’t want to crash his car. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks to the lovely @spikycactussociety for being kind enough to beta this.

“Pete, why haven’t you told me?” Patrick asked, and Pete knew that telling Him this was a mistake. ”How long have you been like this?” He asked, and Pete’s world crumbled because he had been like that forever, since he could remember- he’d been like that for so long that he didn’t even know what _it_ was because he didn’t know anything else. He didn’t know anything else than throwing a couple of pills down his throat every time something went wrong, didn’t know anything else than freaking out over his shoelaces being tied in the wrong way. So he just sat there, staring blankly at Patrick.

“You’re kidding me, right? You do realize that you won’t be able to get help these next, what, five weeks? The five most important weeks of your life? We can’t do this without you!” Patrick said. Pete felt stupid because he knew He was right. Telling Patrick that didn’t do anything but cause unnecessary worry. So he just shrugged.

“It’s not like I’m asking you to fucking fix me, am I? To fucking come up with a plan?” he snapped. Normally, he wouldn’t be hurt. _He trusted him._ He hated how easily Patrick could make him feel like a piece of trash, with the snap of His fingers the dullness and worthlessness slipped away and suddenly there was only rage and _hurt._ It was like when the clouds drift away and the Sun is suddenly blinding you, it was sharp and it was fresh. It cleared his head and he _breathedlongedlived_ for it. It was the only thing he could ever need (it was the thing that was slowly killing him, too, but Pete didn’t think about that. Pete would never put that on His shoulders). “I’m so _sorry_ for telling you, Patrick, I’m sure it’s so hard for you that your little dream tour is falling apart.”

He was standing up now and his hands were fists. Patrick looked at him and it was _fury_ , it was waves crashing, it was storms and whirlwinds and forest fires. It was tearing him apart, how he was _falling in love_ with every word He said, how every judging look and every whine only pushed him closer to the edge. “So it’s my fault now? I’m sorry for not having a cure for _you_ , Pete, I’m sorry for not calling our entire crew and making them all sit down and say _oh yes, Wentz, of course we’ll cancel the tour for you! We’d stop the World from spinning for you!_ This is my job, okay, this is my _life_ we’re talking about, my entire career fucking depends on that tour, but because you’re a little depressed you expect me to drop everything I’ve got and fucking carry you bridal style to a therapist's office? What the hell did you expect me to say to that?” He said, words fucking pouring out of him. “I don’t know what you want me to do, Pete.” _Care for me, stop the World from spinning, hang the fucking stars on the sky for me and name them after me, treat me like I’m everything you’d ever want. Treat me like I’m Oxygen, like you need me to be alive. Make your world revolve around me._

“I don’t know,” Pete said. “Whatever. I won’t force you to care,” he said and then he snickered because _as if_ he could force anyone to care about him. He’d tried his best. He thought he had done it, finally, with Patrick. He thought he’d cracked the code, that he had found someone who’d go to the Moon and back for him (Pete would do a thousand laps if it would make Him crack a smile) because he was _stupid._ Unlovable, uncertifiable, unhelpable, a liability. He was everything the books told you to stay away from. Patrick had always been fond of books. _I didn’t mean it like that!_ he expected to hear. _Come back, Pete!_ he imagined as he walked away, because it somehow made it easier. _I care! Every song I hear is about you, every word I read is in your voice, the Sun only shines so I can see the shimmer in your eyes!_ he heard as he slipped out of the door, out into the darkness. It sounded like a metaphor, and it could have been, would have been, if it wasn’t because Glenview actually was in the AM, Moon hidden behind dark, smoke-like clouds.

Patrick’s parents were gone for the week and He, because He was Patrick, had decided to settle there. Not only for checking mail and feeding a dog. He was fumbling after something that felt like home, just like Pete. They were close-minded after all. Tragically, because everything was a tragedy in Pete’s life; the only place that felt like home was Him. He understood why Patrick liked it there. It was a small two-story house, it still had 80’s furniture and it always smelled like cinnamon. Pete remembered the first time he’d visited, shaking Patricia’s hand and Patrick looking like he’d rather be _anywhere_ but there, argyle sweater and shorts on. Pete already knew that he and Patrick were special that day, when Patrick opened the door and stared at him with those _‘what the fuck is this guy doing here’_ eyes that Pete had grown oh so familiar with.

Now he was standing there again, in front of the door, images of a smiling, dorky-looking boy flashed before his eyes and _he ruined that_ . He had ruined Patrick now, like he knew he would. _You ruined that! No one will ever care for you now!_

He was drowning, losing his grip. It was all true. _He was a disease, a failure. No one should be near him. He should be restrained, put in the back of a squad car._ He got into his car and he couldn’t get away fast enough. _Get away! You’ll ruin everyone!_

He couldn’t breathe, now, shaky foot hitting the speeder. _Up, up and away!_ Everything was too loud. _Never show your face again._

He drove down E Lake Ave and remembered all the times he had picked Patrick up from His school and driven Him to shows. He drove down Edens Expy and he was so sorry that he’d ever even met Patrick, promised that he would never dare to show his face at His door again. He drove down Kennedy Expy and remembered driving off the main road and getting chop suey with Patrick because they’d been so damn _hungry_ on the way home from a show and it was the only place open that wasn’t Dunkin's Donuts or Starbucks.

He drove down W Webster Ave and 20 minutes felt like such a long, long time to get home. He drove down N Elston Ave and he had to pull over if he didn’t want to crash his car.

He drove into a Best Buy parking lot- he was shaking, head spinning and he could feel the bottle in his pocket, screaming for him. _Have you had your daily dose?_ He dug in; it was a buffet, ad libitum, and he wasn’t wasting any time because _everything was so loud._

His finger hit the **on** button and he leaned his head back. _Hallelujah_ by _Jeff Buckley_ was playing because _everything had to be a tragedy_ , and no song was more suited for dying than that. No song more suited for ending your life than a song in the key of reason.

 _“It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, and the major lift,”_ and he laughed because oh it was so _clever_ and _nerdy_ that Patrick could have done that, he could have put the chord progression in the lyrics. _80 drafts for that verse,_ Pete recalled. _80 drafts. Biblical references. Movie references. Banging head._ It could have been a Fall Out Boy song. _It must be._ He pulled out his phone and dialed as if his life depended on it. His vision was getting blurry and the shaking hadn’t stopped, but he dialed and then there was a voice that Pete couldn’t quite make out. Then he remembered to put his phone to his ear.

“‘Ello? Wentz? Can you hear me?” his manager said and Pete nodded. The bottom of his vision was getting black and he had to close his eyes and just lean back, relax. “Why’re you calling so late?” he asked. Pete didn’t know what he was saying by now, but he definitely got the idea that the other man did not feel like discussing whether or not the remaining members of Fall Out Boy could play a cover of Hallelujah at his funeral, and then there was something with his mom and then there was silence from the other end of the phone.

He almost didn’t hear his mom knock on his window, almost didn’t feel himself get pushed into the passenger’s seat. He didn’t hear her quiet sobs. He let himself go.

Finally, after years and years of nothing but yelling and static, there was silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? A regular posting schedule? What's that?


	3. Charcoal (I Don't Do Too Well On My Own)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete liked the thought of death being like a hand grenade, painful and loud and quick. Sobs and screams and yelling.
> 
> He didn’t like this - his mom and Patrick sitting beside his bed as he stared up at the ceiling.

Pete liked guts, blood and split lips. He liked yelling, screaming and getting kicked in the ribs.

He liked ripping plasters off. He liked the cracking of his fingers when he hit a guy in the jaw. He liked the feeling of his heart getting caught in his throat and the tingling, gut-wrenching whirlwinds of guilt inside of him when he got yelled at. He liked the thought of death being like a hand grenade, painful and loud and quick. Sobs and screams and yelling. 

He didn’t like this - his mom and Patrick sitting beside his bed as he stared up at the ceiling. He didn’t like the mind-numbing silence that was reigning in the room, only interrupted by Pete’s charcoal-induced vomiting. He didn’t like how much his throat hurt from the tube that had previously been stuck in it. He didn’t like how a nurse had sent him a  _ soft _ smile when he’d teared up while a gastric lavage was performed on him. 

He wished that the hospital had just had an antidote for Ativan. He wished that Patrick would speak. He wished he hadn’t called his manager. He wished that his mom had just thought: “ _ Oh, we’d be better off without that problem boy, _ ” and let him die.

Pete finally turned around, eyes squinting slightly at the two in front of him. “Could you get me a cuppa coffee, ma’?” he croaked- he almost felt bad as she wiped her eyes and nodded. He watched her walk out of the room (annoyingly slowly, glancing back before closing the door) before he let his eyes divert to Patrick. He wanted to yell at Him,  _ what the fuck are you doing here not speaking, not doing anything, why- _ but the thought stopped dead in it's tracks when he saw the expression on Patrick’s face.    
His skin seemed paler than ever. His eyes were puffy and red, bags under them, and He looked so tired. His lip quivered a bit as Pete stared at Him, and really, He looked like complete and utter shit. That was Pete’s impact. He always forgot that; how there were two sides of the story. How his actions had consequences, how other people had feelings as well. Patrick was this superior being to Pete, someone that Pete couldn’t even  _ dream _ of affecting in any way, and here He was, looking ruined. Because of Pete. It felt a bit good, he had to admit, how he could cause such an impact. And he wasn’t even dead. It made him want to kill himself properly, just so that he could watch Him fall apart about it until He was nothing but the shell of a man. Maybe then he could feel alive, when he knew that he had done something in his life. Left a big, fat stamp on Patrick saying  **Pete Wentz Was Here** . It was just what he’d thought when he was younger. He always knew that he’d die young, that he would have an impact in some way, like this. In the end, they’d all expected a monster.

  
The pale beams of the morning sun hit Patrick’s face _just_ right, and now Pete could see actual tears. He had to close his eyes for a second and decide if he wanted that.  
  
“Pete,” Patrick said deeply, lowly, slowly. There was a squeak in his voice that wasn’t usually there. “I’m not gonna go to Europe. Not while you’re like this. I’m sorry for being such a dick,” He said. Pete looked up just in time to see Him wipe away some tears. “It’s a year since She broke up with me. I was too fucking busy feeling sorry for myself to listen to you. You know how I get. It’s a really bad excuse, I know, but I need one to be able to live with myself.” He looked down at the floor and laughed a quiet, sad laugh.This wasn't what was meant to happen; the rest of the band were supposed to get a filler bassist and have a kick-ass tour to prove to the World that they just needed a little less Pete Wentz to conquer it. That _everyone_ just needed a little less Pete Wentz.   
  
"It's not your fault, y'know. You really think that one fight would make me swallow a bottle of pills?" he asked. It came out bitter and spiteful, the exact opposite of what he wanted. He was good at twisting everything into something it wasn't meant to be. Every laugh could be a snicker when Pete was around. Every "thank you" could be turned into a "fuck you".    
  
"How am I supposed to know? It's _you_ we're talking about," He bit back, regret immediately filling His face. Pete had already forgiven him. It was terrifying how only he could make Him like this- so angry about nothing, throwing around insults and hateful words. He sighed heavily. "They want to keep you til tomorrow morning, run a couple of tests on you and ask you some questions. Maybe they want you on suicide watch." He looked over at the wall. Pete nodded stiffly and sunk deeper into the pillow. "I thought you knew a lot about pills."   
  
Pete lifted his head. "Yeah? What made you change your mind?" he said quietly. Patrick turned His head and their eyes finally met.    
  
"Ativan is only effective when it's mixed with drugs or alcohol. Other pills, too. I know you carry around Lithium as well. Why did you take them alone?" He inquired, his features softening as he spoke. Pete laughed a bit and shook his head.    
  
"I wasn't trying to kill myself. Not like that. I just needed some silence for a while. I took the first the best, I guess." He shrugged and let his gaze fall to where he was fiddling with the sheets. The next thing he knew he had tight, warm arms around him and he was breathing in the smell of laundry detergent. He leaned into it and returned the embrace with one tired arm, letting his head hit the shoulder of the other man. He was sure that he’d be crying by now if he wasn’t so far gone. A primitive part of him needed to weep as he was held. The feeling of _care_ and _comfort_ was such a distant thing to him, so when it was there, he didn’t know what to do with it.  
  
He figured that he didn’t have to do anything. Patrick would eventually pull away, the World would be cold again, his mom would return with the coffee and they’d all go back to small talk. Sure enough, Patrick pulled away. He didn’t want Patrick to stay home from Europe, but God knows that he needed it. He needed someone that didn’t treat him like he was made of feathers and glass - someone that could tell him to breathe when he freaked out about his shoelaces, someone who could laugh at him when it was 5 AM and he was spilling philosophies about how not living should be a bigger sin than committing suicide. That was how Pete was: offer him a bite and he’d take the entire cake. He wanted everything that he couldn’t have. He only felt alive when he saw his reflection in Patrick's eyes. A small smile came to Patrick's face.    
  
"I remember, before our band even had a name, how we used to-" He started but then Dale came into the room with a cup of coffee and so did his _father_ , and whatever part of himself that Patrick had opened up was immediately shut down. Pete got yet another sad glance and a careful hug, this time from his dad, and then Patrick was moving away, offering His chair to him. Pete could almost see himself reach out for Him and start begging for Him to stay, but he didn't. He watched Him walk to the door.    
  
"I'll call you tomorrow, Pete, alright?" He said, and managed to form it into a question. Pete felt himself nod. "Bye," He said, and then He was out of the door.

-

Pete seriously needed to fucking breathe. His parents had been sitting by him for hours asking him questions. _Why, when, how long_. He even found himself missing the awkward silence that Patrick had brought into the room. He had tried to go to the bathroom earlier, but when a nurse had grabbed his arm to lead him and said that she had to stay outside the door to listen, he had lost all hope of being alone for more than ten seconds.   
  
He was feigning sleep now, face turned to the window as he forced himself to breathe deeply. For the first time since his teenage years, he actually wanted his parents to _fuck off_ and _die_ , but he figured he wouldn't be popular if he stated that opinion. Now wouldn't be a good time. There never would be a good time, actually. It would never bring him anything but guilt. And sleep actually sounded good, so close he could taste it, all he needed were a couple of minutes more, then he'd be there- if it hadn't been for his mom, shaking his shoulder.    
  
"Peter? Honey? We need to go home now, alright?" she said ever so sweetly, and Pete turned around to show his nod. It wasn't so hard to fake being sleepy now as he yawned and put his head on the pillow again. He was more than okay with them leaving before he ended up yelling (or begging) at them. He heard their chairs shift and felt a kiss on his forehead, and then they were gone.    
  
\-    
  
When he woke up it was suddenly very clear to him that 1) he was alone 2) he didn't have his phone 3) he was hungry as hell, so when a nurse came into the room with a tray of food, he was convinced that she had to be an angel of some sort, that God had finally responded to his prayers, and so, if she was an angel, he was sure that she'd be more than happy to give him his phone back. She wasn't.   
  
"Good evening Mr Wentz," she said as she made it into the room. Pete was sure that his face actually lit up right then and there, not affected by the not-so-appetizing smell of hospital food. "Feeling any better?" Pete actually made an _effort_ to put on a charming smirk (at least he thought it was).    
  
"Sure am. Specially since you came into the room," he tried. It fell horribly flat and all that he got was an annoyed and tired glance. "Could ya do me a favor?" he asked, and was amazed by how unamused the look on her face was. Flat lips, tired eyes, furrowed brows. "You see, I really need my phone but I got it taken away from me- and, really, I would appreciate it if you could get it for me." She simply shook her head.    
  
"I'm afraid I can't do that," she said and began walking out of the door- she was stopped by a hand grabbing her sleeve.    
  
"Listen- see, the thing is that I’ve got, like, a kid" he lied, trying his best to keep a serious look on his face- "and I promised his mom to pick him up tomorrow, and now I obviously can't, so I need to tell her. No one knows I have a kid, so I can't get anyone to call her. I really need my phone." 

  
He could actually see her give up before she walked to a drawer and unlocked it. He immediately snatched the phone from her hand as she handed it out, turning it on and thanking God for his phone having a good battery. "Thanks," he said, but she was already gone. He didn't blame her.    
  
\-   
  
**_Text from Pete 6:47 PM January 13 2006_**  
  
_forced a nurse to give me my phone. she was not pleased._  
  
**_Text sent to Pete 7:14 PM January 13 2006_**  
  
_Be nice. She could spit in your food._  
  
**_Text from Pete 7:14 PM January 13 2006_**  
  
_2 l8. already served the food. tastes like shit, there might as well b spit._  
  
**_Text sent to Pete 7:20 PM January 13 2006_**  
  
_I have to go. I'll come see you tomorrow, before they let you out._  
  
**_Text from Pete 7:20 PM January 13 2006_**  
  
_ok_   
  
**_Text from Pete 3:41 AM January 14 2006_**  
  
_go to europe_  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks to spikycactussociety on Tumblr for being kind enough to beta this.


End file.
